Meera Dixit, Assistant Superintendent of Police, turned right at the Metro Cinema junction towards
Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. CST, as it is popularly called, is a historic railway station and a World Heritage site in Mumbai. It was 1 a.m. on a cold Sunday in December, but the city was still wide awake. After a relatively easy day at work, Meera was in a good mood. Easy day, so far, she hastily reminded herself.
She had spent the day at the Brabourne Stadium. Meera was overseeing police security arrangements for an American pop star’s concert, which was scheduled for the following week. She was surprised, and just a little bit amused, to see a huge crowd, mostly teenagers, already queueing up to buy tickets. Most of them would have to go back empty-handed, she guessed. The minimum ticket price was five thousand rupees—wasn’t that criminal?
Meera had grown up in Pune, Mumbai’s more sedate satellite city. She often wondered when her hometown would catch up with the madness of the Maximum City, if ever.
She drove her police car, a white Bolero, through the gates of the Azad Maidan police station and parked it in the compound. She got off the vehicle, adjusted the peaked cap over her pretty, oval face in a habitual gesture and looked up at the structure. This 128-year- old stone edifice had been home for the past two years where she was serving as a station officer. She strode in, past the reception area and waiting room, into her spacious open office. The constable on duty stood up to salute Meera; she acknowledged him and sat down, picking up the file on top of the stack on her desk.
‘Salunkhe, anything important?’ she asked the constable, without looking up.
‘Nothing, madam,’ he replied.
‘That’s good.’ Crime appears to have gone on a vacation, Meera thought.
Just then, a young canteen boy came in and placed a small glass of tea on Meera’s desk. She gave him a dimpled smile, shut the file and took a sip of the strong chai. Her eyes followed the boy to the small twenty-four-hour cafeteria right next to the police station’s entrance. It was still crowded with cops, even in the small hours. She sighed and got up.
‘I am going home, Salunkhe. See you tomorrow. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, madam.’
Meera was just about to step out of her office when the phone rang.